


Fairytale of Kirkwall

by LauraEMoriarty



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Background Relationships, F/M, Height Differences, Isabela (Dragon Age) and Innuendo, Isabela (Dragon Age) is a Good Friend, Isabela and Varric are good friends who write friend fiction about their other friends, M/M, Vaginal Fingering, Varric Tethras Writes, Varric Tethras' Chest Hair, Writer's Block, the pogues inspired the fight in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:40:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27488965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraEMoriarty/pseuds/LauraEMoriarty
Summary: A wee treat forhollyandfor the Paragon of Our Kind Dwarf fic exchange. Isabela and Varric discuss writing, and things heat up between them.
Relationships: Isabela/Varric Tethras
Comments: 8
Kudos: 12
Collections: 2020 A Paragon of Their Kind Dragon Age Dwarf Exchange





	Fairytale of Kirkwall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollyand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollyand/gifts).



_I could have been someone_

_Well so could anyone_

_You took my dreams from me_

_When I first found you_

_I kept them with me babe_

_I put them with my own_

_Can't make it all alone_

_I've built my dreams around you_

_— Fairytale of New York,_ Shane McGowan and the Pogues.

Isabela knows many things. She knows, for instance, the number of patrons in the Hanged Man who will not make it home to their wives or husbands, either due to inebriation or lust. She knows how watered down the ale is, and how much blood will be spilled outside the tavern, and how much will be spilled within. From her seat at the bar, she knows how the tides of fortune will change in a back room game of dice, how much money some fool will lose in a game of Wicked Grace. She’s learned to size people up the second she meets them, learned too, that some give no warning of their dubious natures. She could’ve taken the book and run far away, taken it and never looked back, but Hawke needed her, needed her to return, to stop the duel between him and the Arishok.

She’s got an annoying, sarcastic voice in her head that sounds very much like Hawke’s. Damn him for her developing a conscience. She’d be halfway across Thedas if it wasn’t for him. She sighs, and takes a sip of her drink, shaking her head as she imagines him and Anders— and _no_ , she stops herself, but it is hard to do so. Instead, she takes a sip of her horrible, cheap rum, wondering why the barman never stocks the good stuff. Something about equity, more than likely. Isabela ignores the two people next to her at the bar, knowing that no matter how many bottles they hurl at each other, they’re still going to wind up in bed together— it’s a familiar routine, one she’s seen play out thousands of times in countless taverns throughout Thedas. In fact, it’s about time the piano player gets up and starts playing, a jangling, jaunty tune on an out-of-tune piano.

“Rivaini, I don’t know what you think will be different tonight,” Varric says, sliding a drink down the bar towards her.

Isabela wrinkles her nose. She catches the drink with ease, and chuckles darkly. “They always end up in bed together,” she says, before giving Varric a wolfish grin. “Much like how Hawke and Anders seem to.”

Varric chuckles. “That they do. What _do_ they get up to, I wonder?”

Isabela considers, shakes her head, and takes a sip of the drink Varric ordered her. The burned molasses is rich in the back of her mouth, and she knows Varric has paid the barman a fortune to stock the _good_ stuff. She raises an eyebrow at him, and he simply smirks back at her.

“I know it’s smutty,” Isabela grins at him. “But what _kind_ of smut’s the question. Is it the soft, sweet smut of romance novels?” She takes another sip, the dark gold liquid warming her. Rum does that— leads to all kinds of decisions better left unquestioned. The type of decisions that have her winding up naked in someone’s bed, and memories of entirely forgettable sex. Rather regrettable, forgettable sex. The sex you don’t try and remember, at least. But she remembers it nonetheless. The number of conquests— she’s sure it’s in the eighties— but she never truly keeps track.

Varric once more chuckles softly. “Or is it the smut that’s more regrettable in the cold light of post-coital comedown?”

Isabela takes a sip of rum, rolling it round her tongue. “Who knows?” she shrugs, an eloquently nonchalant gesture, and shakes her hair out of her eyes, pushing her bandanna back from where it slips down on her hair. “I’d like to think it’s neither sweet, nor ultimately forgettable. I _do_ like a good sex scene.” She grins at Varric. “Speaking of, where _is_ the next chapter of Hard in Hightown? You’ve not published one in _weeks._ What’s the hold-up?”

Varric eyes her darkly, and Isabela raises her eyebrows.

“Rivaini, I didn’t know you read it,” Varric says, chuckling. “If you must know, I’m stuck.”

“What sort of stuck?” Isabela says, drinking once more. “The sort of stuck that requires actual experience, or the sort of stuck where the ideas dry up entirely?”

Varric smirks. “The sort of stuck where both scenarios are running concurrently,” he says, as the barman slides a drink down the bar to him.

“Tell me about the plot,” Isabela looks at him, considering. “Or, would you like practical experience if you’re truly, utterly, irredeemably stuck?” She sidles up to him, her hip bumping deliberately against his. It’s not as easy as she would think— Varric’s hip comes up to her thigh. _Hmm.._

It’s been a while since she’s had someone in her bed. Sure, she maintains the illusion that she’s been with someone every night, and caught some disease that Anders treats with a long-suffering sigh. Her bed’s been bereft of company for four days—might as well be four _ages._ Sometimes she thinks about the piano player and his girlfriend, about how they inevitably end up in a screaming match before fucking noisily and so vigorously that Isabela wants to stuff them into a soundproof box, and has considered it once or twice, before discarding it as a bad idea. She’d rather _be_ fucked by them rather than stuff them into the hold of her ship.

“It’s the climax for this particular story arc,” Varric begins, taking a sip of his drink and relaxing, leaning his forearms on the bar. “I’m not sure how to write it without sacrificing character development that I’ve taken great pains to establish.”

Isabela clucks. “What sort of character development? The type where your character goes from hero to villain, or from villain to the hero?” She takes another sip of her drink, rolling it around her mouth, savouring it.

“Neither. More like overcoming a situation and then going to bed with someone,” Varric smirks, the invitation clear in his voice. “Someone unexpected.”

Isabela grins at him, sets down her nearly finished drink, and stands. She heads towards the stairs, throwing a look over her shoulder at Varric. She has to pass the discordant pianist and his lady love, who have already started yelling at one another.

“ _You’re a bum,_ ” the pianist says, slurring his words while yelling them at the top of his lungs. Isabela shakes her head, amused.

“ _You’re a punk_ ,” the other chimes in, voice loud— Isabela knows the rest of the pattern, knows they’ll end up in bed when all is said and done.

“ _You’re an old slut on…_ ” The voice dies away as Isabela shakes head, and continues up the stairs to her room, Varric following her.

She lets the rest of the words fade in her mind, though she’s heard them over and over every night. The fight will continue until both pianist and singer decide to end up sloshed and fucking in the alleyway behind the Hanged Man. It’s the same, inevitable pattern for them both, and she knows it to be true. In any case, Isabela is aware that the night is still young, with plenty of mistakes—or miracles— still to come. Glancing back at Varric, she climbs the stairs to her room, casually discarding her belt as she reaches her door.

“Are you ready to end your writer’s block?” A coy smile tugs at her lips, and she turns the doorknob, stepping inside. Varric follows her, a soft chuckle in his throat.

“If this isn’t the best excuse to prolong writing, I don’t know what is,” Varric says as Isabela closes the door firmly behind them, engaging the flimsy latch. “And we may as well drop the pretext that this is about writer’s block.”

Isabela looks at him, sucking in her bottom lip, her top teeth flashing white in her face as she bites down on her lip. “What took you so long to figure _that_ out?”

Chuckling, Varric shakes his head. “Rivaini,” he begins, but Isabela turns to him, going down on her knees so she’s lower than him. Without thinking it through, she slides her arm around his neck, drawing his head closer to hers. “Well, this is unexpected,” Varric remarks, before his lips close over hers.

The scrape of stubble against her cheek as they kiss is not unpleasant, and she tastes the slightly bitter tang of the sour brandy he’d been drinking earlier. His lips are softer than they have any right to be— she has kissed dozens of men and women all over Thedas, knows how some are dry from salt and wind and some are flaky, but Varric’s lips are soft, and she mentally grins at that. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, but Varric is a good kisser, and Isabela relaxes, her hand sliding up the back of his shirt.

Varric’s hand threads through her hair, and comes to rest at the base of her skull, his other hand rests on her waist, and suddenly being clothed is too much. She tugs at his belt, her fingers nimble from many escapades over the years, and she hears the last, violent strains of the drunken couple’s song as it filters through the thin walls in the Hanged Man.

“ _And the bells were ringing out…._.” The warble becomes clearer as she hears the stumbling footsteps up stairs, sounding like a stampeding herd of nugs as the two drunks stumble past her door, crashing into an unlucky vase that falls to the floor, shattering.

She tugs the laces loose from the sides of her dress, and Varric helps remove the garment, their mouths meeting again, and her hands tug at the hem of his shirt. Isabela knows the night will proceed in a fashion that is entirely pleasurable. She feels moisture beading at the apex of her thighs, and she slides her hands back into his hair, pulling Varric down. But Varric pulls away, looking at her with his light brown eyes, forehead creasing.

“Does anyone ever look after you, Rivaini?” Varric asks, moving to stand behind her. His hands rest on her shoulders, forcing her to slide down onto the floor, her legs outstretched.

“I’m fine…. I’ve fucked in more uncomfortable spaces,” Isabela dismisses his concerns, until his thumbs brush her neck.

“Fine doesn’t cut it, Rivaini,” Varric chuckles softly, his breath soft against her neck. She lets out a sigh of satisfaction as his thumbs dig deep into the knots on either side of her neck, head lolling to the side as she allows him access to work out the knots. His fingers feel wonderful, and the callouses on his hands from both holding a crossbow and a pen rasp against tender skin. Her hands find the knot in her bandanna, and she yanks it free, letting her glorious black hair cascade down her back. “You need more than just _fine,_ ” he adds.

“That _does_ feel good,” Isabela admits, leaning into his hands, and Varric mutters something under his breath that she doesn’t quite catch— nor is she sure she wants to. “Keep it up, and you’ll— _oh,_ ” she moans as Varric presses down on a particularly gnarly knot in her shoulder, arching into his touch. She wants _more_ than his hands on her muscles— she wants them on her cunt, _in_ her cunt, too. But she appreciates Varric’s taking care of her this way, too.

It’s been a long time since Isabela has been looked after like this, and even longer since she’s cared to be looked after. She’s far more the quick tumble into bed, fuck, have them out of her bed and back downstairs when she grows tired of their company. With Varric, she allows herself the luxury of being taken care of— for once. And he has her relaxed, truly, wholly _relaxed_ , his hands smoothing the knots in her back and neck. She closes her eyes— a sure sign that she is relaxing, and lets her head loll back.

“… Rivaini?” Varric’s voice floats through the bliss haze.

“Yes?” Isabela mumbles, almost incoherent from the bliss.

“It’s hard to give you a massage if your head is leaning against my shoulder,” Varric chuckles dryly, his lips suddenly close to hers, and this time, she reaches up to close the small distance between them.

This time, there is no way to know which of them has broken the kiss, temporarily, to tug a shirt loose, and a bodice unlaced. She is bared— well and truly _bared_ to him. She’s never allowed herself this, either. She expects the usual focus on her tits, but Varric truly _sees_ her.

She knows that when she next takes a man to her bed, she will hold them against the dwarf who she stands before now, feeling his gaze as it roves over her, but stops at her face, and not her tits. For the first time in a long time, a long list of lovers, she knows tonight will be different. A good kind of different. The kind of different that makes the experience all the sweeter.

Varric groans as Isabela’s fingers wrap around his hard cock, and mumbles something incoherent as she begins jerking him off. Her other hand plays with his balls, and Isabela kneels down to lick him, from base to tip, and back again. She hears Varric moan from her ministrations, and sucks him into her mouth deeper, and wants to smile, but can’t— not around his thick cock.

“Rivaini, you’re killing me here,” Varric mumbles, his voice fogged with lust. He threads his fingers through her hair, and she continues licking and sucking him.

She looks up at him, her eyes taking in his expression, and knows he’s close. She’s not yet been satisfied, and she reaches down to touch herself, one finger sliding into her sopping cunt. She knows how wet she is, and she releases Varric’s cock with a smirk. Isabela spreads her legs wider, leaning backwards against the bed frame.

“Touch me,” she tells Varric, taking his hand and guiding it to her wetness. Varric grins, kneeling between her legs and she takes his hand, guiding it into her wetness. Her other finger— the one that’s dripping with her own juices— slowly, tantalisingly, makes its way to his lips, and he closes his mouth around it.

Her eyes close as Varric’s tongue licks her finger, and she moans, impatient now to feel his cock inside her cunt, and she rocks her hips. His hand moves with her, another finger sliding into her as she leans in to kiss him, tasting the saltiness of her juices on his lips. Her legs part, wider to let his hand withdraw, before she settles herself in his lap, grinning up at him.

“Isabela,” Varric says, his voice rough, his hands resting on her thighs. Her hand reaches between them, finding his cock, and guides him into her.

And then the tables turn as Varric pushes her back, pinning her hands beside her as he drives himself into her, and Isabela likes that, likes a man that takes charge. She leans up to kiss him, but he eludes her, and she grins up at him.

“Is this how we’re playing it now?” Isabela asks, relishing the feeling of Varric’s hand squeezing her tit, the other still pinning her hands between them. She likes this, likes how Varric continues to drive himself into her, over and over. She likes how he’s rough, how he seems to know she _wants_ it rough. Lovemaking and fucking are two separate events, two separate things. This is somehow neither lovemaking or fucking, but some indefinable place in-between— a place where they could either keep falling into bed with each other until one of them admits it’s the former, and not the latter.

She moans softly— no, scratch that— she simply _moans,_ and Varric moans along with her, a sound of deep satisfaction. His balls slap against her, and she brings his head down to kiss him.

“I think it is, Isabela,” Varric says, and Isabela is lost once more in the maelstrom of pleasure he is coaxing from her.

“You’ve never called me by my name before,” Isabela says breathlessly, now her hands have been released from Varric’s hold. “What changed?”

His chuckle is a low vibration against her breastbone, a hum as he presses a kiss to the valley between her breasts. “You changed,” he says simply. “You returned— that’s character development for you.”

“So we’re back to writing metaphors, then?” Isabela throws her head back, her hips rising and falling with Varric’s every stroke. Her cunt is full of his cock, and she moans once more.

“Something like that,” Varric agrees.

“I’m so close,” Isabela whimpers. “So, so close…”

“Oh, Rivaini, if you think you’re close…” Varric says, grinning. “You’ve got no idea how much stamina dwarves have…”

“Tease,” Isabela pouts. “You _might_ have more stamina than most, but I’ve been with dwarves before— not all of them are wild stallions between the sheets.”

“Wild stallions?” Varric chuckles. “I’m not sure most dwarves know what stallions are. Brontos, yes— stallions, not so much.”

Isabela moans as Varric pants, their words a jumbled, incoherent babble. A few moment pass in which all that is heard is their breathing coming in gasps, moans, pants. Sweat beads along Isabela’s arms, as Varric’s hands ghost along her forearms. They forget to talk for a few moments, both lost in the exquisite sensations flooding through them— well, _Isabela_ ’s forgotten how to talk, her breathing rapid as she tumbles over the orgasmic cliff, coming in a long, low moan. She shivers as his fingers find her clit, rubbing against it, and she arches her back, whimpering, and Varric withdraws.

Isabela grins at him, rising to her knees, her mouth already wrapping around Varric’s cock. Her tongue strokes the underside of it, her hand tugging at his cock, her other hand touching herself as they both groan and hot, salty cum hits the back of her throat. She swallows, figuring it’s the least messy option— not that she truly cares about the mess. As she releases his softening cock, Isabela looks at Varric, raising her eyebrows.

“Well, did _that_ fix your writer’s block?” she asks impishly. “If not, shall we repeat this until it does?”

Varric’s eyes are closed, and his breathing is heavy. “Rivaini, careful what you wish for,” he grins at her.

“Why?”

Varric chuckles, a warm, rich sound. Isabela likes that sound, likes it more than she probably should.

“Because I don’t know about you, but things could heat up again,” Varric tells her, suddenly waking. He rummages around in his discarded clothes, hunting for notepad and pencil, a blanket thrown around his shoulders. He licks his pencil as he opens his notepad, and looks over at Isabela. “You know, Rivaini, I might just have to write a dedication to you in this one.”

She rises on her elbows, looking at him as he writes down some notes. It is the last thing she sees before she drifts off to sleep.

Isabela knows many things. She knows that Varric’s next chapter is going to be brilliant, and she knows her nights in the Hanged Man will never be dull again.


End file.
